


Venus Girdle

by Annie Christ (SmokedSalmon)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Androgyny, Angst and Humor, Domestic Violence, Eventual Sex, Fashion & Couture, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Pop Star AU, Recreational Drug Use, References to David Bowie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-15 15:04:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4611240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmokedSalmon/pseuds/Annie%20Christ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a favor and final attempt to make ends meet, Hawke decides to take his uncle up on a job offer as a bodyguard. Assigned to Fenris, known as 'Ziggy Stardust's afterbirth' and a conceptual pop star with the disposition of an old god, the last thing Hawke intends to do is invest his feelings in a spoiled, wannabe glam rocker who never takes his makeup off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Starman

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a joke, and here we are.

Hawke needed this job.

He reminded himself that while gazing at his reflection in the Hotel Palais' pink marble floor, cross-examining his features with a gratuitous hand-drag down the side of his face. Being a bodyguard wasn't exactly a glamorous occupation, so before hauling himself out of his rumpled sheets, he'd done next to nothing to prepare himself for the nighttime interview. There was an unspoken apathy in him wearing a leather jacket over his hooded sweatshirt and rotted Keds, and the warm spotlight projecting from the above chandelier seemed to be taunting him with the fact.

 _You should've cut your hair_ , it sang.  _You look like a degenerate bum trying to recover from a crystal meth binger._

Really, the lighting was terrible. But there was nothing he could do at that point. They would either have to love him for his rugged good looks and charming disposition or lose out.

Hawke's uncle, Gamlen Amell, had set him up with the potential paycheck on one of his rare gratuitous whims. Something about owing a big rig an even bigger favor, and making sure his nephew could pay his rent on time was killing two birds with one stone. From the moment the opportunity was presented, Hawke understood he was the human sacrifice. He could've gotten a job with the local police force, something he actually didn't want to do, or maybe gone back to scrubbing dishes at the Black Emporium. It wasn't like he  _had_ to take his uncle up on the offer, but the man had been pale, sweaty even. There were two extra deadbolts on the door that afternoon, and Hawke understood he was in the kind of trouble that could easily be made to look like a suicide.

And so there he was, standing in one of the ritziest hotels in Kirkwall, counting the seconds in between lightning to thunder and feeling lethargic. He thought about name brand cereal, being able to buy gyros more than once a week and maybe even a new pair of Ray-Bans.

" _This_  is what Amell sent me?"

The voice came from behind him, male and amused. Hawke glanced over his shoulder before he turned to a pair of gaping elevator doors. They were framing a short man with gingery chest hair that stuck out more than his fat head's facial features. He was smoking a thin cigarette, wearing an expensive looking trench from a designer Hawke would've never recognized, and his nose had been broken multiple times. Unabashed, Hawke stared at his tangerine boots.

"Well, come on," he said and gestured for Hawke to follow him inside. Hawke glanced from side-to-side before cautiously doing so and watched as the stranger slide his keycard through the reader. Where they were going wasn't on the button grid. "You  _are_  built like a shit brick house. As long as you can tackle someone, then I guess it doesn't matter."

Hawke wondered if he should say something, but he pursed his lips instead, again faced with his reflection in the stainless steel elevator walls. 

"My name's Varric Tethras," the stranger said, and he offered Hawke his surprisingly large hand. Hawke took it and firmly shook. He interrupted Hawke before he could respond. "I already know you're Garrett Hawke. We've, mostly  _I've_ , done a background check on you three times over. The second we saw you peacefully quit your job at the Lothering Police Department we figured we had our man, but I'm not the final voice that yays or nays these kinds of things. You've got one more person to do a sit down with."

Varric cut Hawke an expectant look, and Hawke stared back.

"Nice shoes," he said and coughed, "I mean, nice to meet you, I think."

"You like them?" Varric asked and extended a short leg. "Alligator skin wasn't really my  _thing_ until this fall, but Fenris gave them to me as a gift, which reminds me. I'm your go-to in this haus, the real shebang beneath our baby starlit. If you have questions about anything, then you come to  _me_. Don't bother asking anyone else. It'll get you into a real kind of trouble."

"You're making it sound like I'm already hired." The corner of Hawke's lip quirked. He went as far as to raise an eyebrow. "Are you the manager or something?"

"Not the kind you're thinking of." Varric checked his buzzing phone and took a drag, ashing the cigarette on the floor without hesitation. "That would be Danarius, but he's _the_   _myth_. The only time I see that man is if he's walking into Fenris' bedroom to talk  _business_  or fucking up the finalized itinerary Isabela and I spent hours on. You'll like Isabela, by the way. Everyone does. She's a real nightmare."

Hawke raised an eyebrow.

"The good kind."

"She sounds  _fun_."

"Isabela's an adventure." Varric took a drag and slowly exhaled smoke through his nostrils. "Just don't bet on anything with her. Her ex-husband was a champion poker player."

"Is she your assistant or something?"

"No, and if you'd like to keep your balls, then don't let her know you asked that."

The elevator doors slid open to reveal Babylon in a penthouse suite. Hawke parted his lips as the cumulative murmuring blew against his face. Every Rolex-wristed hand held a cellphone or cradled a laptop with an email client open, and the stacks of black boxes, spilling into each room like an oil slick, made the luxurious hotel room suffocating.

Hawke glanced at Varric who immediately pointed at a tall, curvaceous woman in a skintight white dress and decadent gold costume jewelry. She was smoking a clove, chomping gum and running her thumb over a phone's touchscreen while a frail boy applied clear nail polish to a run in her pantyhose. Hawke decided she looked expensive, the personification of Rodeo Drive.

"Varric, he's not talking to me right now. I'm worried."

"He never talks to anyone."

Varric motioned for Hawke to follow him into the Gucci and Marc Jacobs derecho. Hawke excused himself as he drifted between warm bodies, exhaling in annoyance whenever they rudely smacked against him. He was doing his best to remain as invisible as possible while out of his element, but the floundering crowd was making it difficult.

"He needs to quit sulking alone in his room. That bodyguard we talked about is here, and it's not my fault he won't take my word on anything and just let me hire someone without him."

"Try to be sweet," Isabela said with a smile, still staring at her phone. "He's having a bad day. I think he got a call from you know  _who_  about you know  _what_."

Varric's demeanor shifted, and he redirected his annoyance.

"Isabela, meet Garrett Hawke. Garrett, meet Isabela. She's Fenris' left hand and sometimes helps him with his right."

Isabela made a jerking gesture in front of her mouth, tongue pressed into her cheek to bloat it. "This is the new head bodyguard?"

" _Head_ bodyguard?" Hawke asked, not sure if he'd gotten the right memo.

Isabela walked around Hawke, her tall stilettos clicking, and he bit back a chuckle at her shameless appraisal. He met her stare when it finally removed itself from his ass.

"Danarius is going to hate him. Varric, you know the rule about bodyguards with pretty faces and even prettier form."

"You don't sound too convinced he's a bad idea."

"No. I'm not. Let me see if Fenris is willing to talk to  _anyone_ right now."

Isabela winked at Hawke and strode toward the door at the farthest end of the room. Hawke watched her rap her knuckles against the wood, announce her presence and then glide through the narrowest crack she could fit her chest through.

"She's the only one who can do that," Varric said after a short silence. "When you meet him, you'll understand."

"I didn't realize he was such a big deal." Hawke rubbed his bearded cheek. "What exactly does he do again?"

Varric stared at Hawke, baffled. He composed himself and rapidly started to text on his Blackberry, scrutinizing what he wrote before sending it off.

"What's it like living under a rock? I've always wondered, but it's hard to get an interview with an actual mollusk."

Isabela opened the door before Hawke could answer, then checking her phone again. When she finished reading the message, her head popped up and she stared at Hawke as if he'd told her he thought an orphan sounded tasty. He raised his hands in defense of himself and turned back to Varric as if expecting an explanation for his mighty error.

"At least you won't be licking his asshole for favors," Varric muttered.

Isabela stepped up to them.

"You can go in. But _pretend_  you know who he is."

"No," Varric corrected. "Don't pretend. Don't mention anything about his career. You're just a normal guy hired to protect a normal person so a John Lennon doesn't happen."

"You're telling me too entirely different things. What should I do?"

"Remember what I said in the elevator?"

_"If you have questions about anything, then you come to me. Don't bother asking anyone else. It'll get you into a real kind of trouble."_

"And don't ask someone what to do in an interview," Isabela chided. She shoved him forward with a hard push. "Don't keep him waiting either. He doesn't  _wait_."

"Since when is this is a part of the interview process?" Hawke asked and caught his stumble. He righted himself and started walking forward, wondering if he was supposed to be more nervous than annoyed by the whirlwind situation. "Has it been an interview the entire time? I didn't even get an introduction. You told me to get into an elevator and show me your shoes..."

Varric laughed, which stopped Hawke.

"Garret," Varric started, "if you think for one second you're getting hired if  _we_  don't like you, then you've misread the situation. Didn't Amell tell you anything?"

Hawke looked back at them once more. As if he suddenly wasn't there, he heard them murmur to one another.

"I bet he won't even knock," Isabela said.

"You should read his background check. A regular  _tragedy_."

"Look at those shoes. They're so endearing. He's wearing  _sneakers_."

Hawke turned the handle, nudged it open a crack and stepped inside the same way Isabela had. The opulent room smelled like the Chinese restaurant he'd spent his college career working in, and the stench of crisp noodles and stir-fried cabbage intermingled with perfume and coffee. He glanced around, not seeing the mystery employer.

"Down here."

He leaned and spotted a single tattooed foot sticking out from the opposite side the elevated king bed. Hawke's brow lifted, and he cleared his throat to introduce himself before even seeing the source of the voice. Unfortunately, his own train of thought interrupted him, and he was left dumbfounded instead, silenced by surprise.

There was an alien. Tiny in the way that he was thin, the man was a supple figure made of long limbs and jagged shoulders. But that wasn't what Hawke was gawking at. Half of his narrow face was sponged with adhesive gold glitter, creating a clean line down the center of his face and leaving the other barren, aside from green winged eyeliner. His hair, a testament to art itself, was shaved on both sides, bleached and rinsed to silver. The thick mess lay tousled on his crown, sprayed and teased into a flowing mohawk better fit for a horse, and when he swayed the hair remained still. Somehow, it appeared soft.

All of this violently clashed with his black yoga pants and off-shoulder sweatshirt. That, and while he attempted to clip a set of finely painted toenails, a perilously short cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, threatening to plummet to his thigh. Hawke noted the Chinese cartons barricading him and realized he'd managed to simultaneously interrupt both a hygiene routine and the man's dinner. From the looks of it, he really needed that meal, too.

"And  _you_  are?"

Hawke couldn't believe such a tenor came from the delicate looking humanoid. He blinked once to seem normal and then figured it was better  _not_ to offer a handshake.

"Garrett Hawke," he said.

"Fenris," the creature offered, articulating slow and smooth. Even his speech seemed unnatural. "I heard you don't know who I am."

_How?_

"I know  _of_ you," Hawke corrected, and he shifted his weight with a smile. Fenris didn't return it. "It's hard to miss your face when it's plastered across every billboard and magazine known to First World man. I don't know what you  _do_. There's a distinct difference."

"Conceptual music," Fenris said and set aside the toenail clippers. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and then reached for his chopsticks. "You're replacing a shitty bodyguard, so lucky for you, my expectations aren't hinged on anything stunning. Have you ever done this before? Why do you want to be my bodyguard if you have no idea what you're getting into?"

"Why're you a pop star?"

He stopped mid-slurp and bit through a noodle. "Because I didn't know what I was getting into."

"That's pretty  _dark_. Are you this honest with all your prospective employees?"

Fenris raised an eyebrow, and Hawke would've put money on him almost smiling, but he didn't follow through. Instead, he took another bite, chewed with a thoughtful look and cleared his throat. "Garrett…"

"Hawke," he finally corrected. "I go by Hawke."

" _Hawke_ ," Fenris started, but he stopped himself. "That sounds like a persona. Maybe a bit _forced_ , but it's  _interesting_. Appropriate for a watchman, at least. You'd fit in here with that self-imagination, which is the thing about this place. Whether you're my bodyguard or my personal assistant, you're playing a part. You're an extension of an entourage maintained by a misconception we've spent millions of dollars formulating. I can see it now. The paparazzi are so predictable.  _A Hawk Watches Over the Wolf_  in bold in the A&E segment."

"That's probably the tackiest thing I've ever heard. Is this your persona then? Is the mask always on even in sweats? I hope you don't sleep wearing it. That can't be good for your skin."

"I exfoliate."

"Religiously, I bet."

"Religiously," Fenris confirmed. "So, _Hawke_ , what did you do before this?"

"I was a chief police officer in Lothering and decided it wasn't for me after a couple corrupt trials. Some family business brought me to Kirkwall, and I've been making ends meet in the restaurant business ever since. That was about six months ago."

"Do you have a life outside of work?"

"I have a dog and an apartment. Sometimes I have friends, but we all fall off the grid when the bills pile up, which is standard."

Hawke heard buzzing. Fenris reached for his white iPhone and read the message. He ignored it only for a call to pop up on the screen. He also ignored that.

"I have a hectic schedule. Sometimes we're out of country for almost a year." Fenris used only his legs to stand. With his hair, he was approximately as tall as Hawke. "It's why I'm asking."

"I'm pretty good at acclimating for money."

"Most are, but it's how you acclimate that matters."

"How do you  _want_  me to acclimate?" he asked.

Fenris walked into the dimly lit bathroom. Hawke followed him to the doorway and watched as he reached for a makeup wipe and a tray covered in an arsenal of expensive face creams and toners. Fenris began removing the black eyeliner with long drags, tightening his jaw at his reflection and repeatedly swallowing. He then raised his hand and shoed him off.

"You can go now."

Hawke blinked and uncertainly asked, "That's it?"

"That's it. What did you want?" He shifted his weight and Hawke could've sworn there were freckles peppered throughout the smeared foundation. "Am I supposed to serve you champagne and feed you foie gras while telling you how absolutely remarkable your barren resume is? Did you want me to offer to do a line with you, Mr. Police Officer? Because I'm here to serve you and..."

Hawke's jaw became a hard line. "No, thank you."

"Then  _why_ are you still here?"

"Do you want me to say anything to Varric?"

Fenris' response was a look that could've performed surgery. He rolled his mandible and then sucked the gelatinous muck from his molars with a pointed  _pop_.

Hawke turned and strode out of the bedroom. When he tugged open the door, he was faced with Isabela and Varric who'd had their ears pressed to the door. He shook his head and reached into his back pocket for his phone to check for messages, deciding he definitely hadn't gotten the job.

"What did he say?" Varric asked.

"It was nice meeting you two," Hawke muttered and made a beeline for the elevator. "Try not to have my uncle killed because  _he's_  looking for a bodyguard that wears  _Prada_."

"But no one here really wears Prada," Isabela whispered.

Varric trailed after him. "Did he tell you _yes_ or _no_?"

"He didn't tell me anything."

The pair exchanged raised eyebrows, and Hawke stared back at them in disbelief. He waited for the elevator's ping and stepped inside before pressing his shoulder against the wall. The doors slid shut as Varric strode toward them, and Hawke smiled with a wave when Varric called him a ' _son of a bitch_ ' beneath his breath.

Hawke was halfway across the downstairs lobby when Varric caught up to him, out of breath from running down infinite flights of stairs.

"Garrett Hawke!"

He lowered his phone as soon as his uncle picked up and let the device hang at his thigh. Hawke paused and slowly pivoted to face Varric who was bent over his knees, heaving. Varric cleared his throat with a quiet 'goddamn' and righted himself. He squared his shoulders, and with both hands, motioned for Hawke to follow him back upstairs.

"You got the job."

* * *

 

It was the prologue to how he ended up standing in the Hotel Palais' basement garage at five in the morning. Fenris hadn't arrived, but the rest of his entourage was waiting around their black Cadillac fleet with coffee in hand and shaking shoulders. Hawke himself was bundled with a beanie tugged over his iced ears, and Isabela was standing beside him, hand on her hip in a blue, ankle-length fur coat. She was smoking again and texting with the same frail boy at her side, holding her cup of coffee for her.

The assistant had an assistant.

"He'll be here," she said. "I think he's coming downstairs right now."

"What's he doing that needs everyone like this?"

"American Vogue is featuring him on the December cover and doing an editorial spread. Didn't you read the itinerary we sent you last night? Everyone has to know his schedule even better than he does, and he knows _everything_. And for the record, this isn't everyone. This is the standard package. Once he goes on tour, you'll meet  _everyone_."

"I looked at the times and places," Hawke clarified and sipped his coffee. "Sorry if I found your annotations less than entertaining."

The elevator doors were located across the other end of the garage, and when they glided open, Hawke turned his head to face the concrete desert. Fenris appeared and broke into stride with Varric trailing behind him, talking a million miles per hour. Hawke knew he should've been paying attention to Varric's cues, but there was Fenris in full makeup again; hair big, wearing a patched together, multi-colored fur coat that reached mid-thigh. Hawke had never seen so many different colors and textures stitched into one puffy piece of attire; lime, magenta, leopard print, limoncello, and then the brightest, purest cerulean he'd ever seen.

Fenris' white boots skidded to a halt upon approaching Hawke, and though he couldn't see the assessing fennel stare through his flattop aviators, Hawke knew it was there.

"I love that Saint Laurent jacket," Isabela muttered under her breath. "Fenris! We're going to be late!"

Hawke thought it looked like a kindergarten project, but he knew better than to say anything about it, unless he wanted to be reamed.

Fenris lifted his glasses, looked Hawke over, and sucked on his left canine. Unimpressed, he lowered the glasses and then waited for the driver to open the door for him before climbing into the backseat. Isabela fixed her bag and strode to the other side where she too waited for the door to be opened.

"You're shotgun," Varric said as he strode past Hawke to his individual vehicle. "As soon as he gets out, don't dare leave his side. You're taking bullets, remember?"

Hawke recalled the email and binder full of information Varric had handed him the night before. Once Fenris had gone to sleep, Varric became significantly looser and invited him for a couple drinks in the downstairs bar. They'd sat together, looking over the binder's crucial information, and Varric mostly sung Fenris praises, though sometimes they ended up cushioned with vague annoyances. Hawke had drank the free beer, listened and repeatedly grinned at Varric's flare for metaphor.

"If only you knew where he came from. Even the media hasn't gotten ahold of that story yet, and they never will if we can help it. Danarius would never let it get out. Did he tell you _why_ the last head bodyguard got fired? No. I know he didn't. I shouldn't even allude to it."

Hawke had taken a long drag off his cigarette. "He said he was shitty."

"Of course he said that," Varric murmured, bitter. "He's a tart."

"What actually happened?"

"In this line of work, you  _always_ get attached to the boss. It doesn't matter if they sign your paychecks or gift you something expensive once in a while. Eventually, you want to protect them because you take care of them. Your job is the hardest when it comes to that. There are a lot of things you're going to want to protect him from because you think you have the right, but you don't. Even if he needs you, you're not going to be able to without kissing that job and privileges goodbye, and that's the hardest part. The lines blur and things become dangerous for everyone."

"I see," Hawke said. "The other guy got too personal."

"It went two ways. Tell anyone I said that and you'll be deader than your uncle."

"Don't worry about it." He tried not to laugh at the thought. "Extraterrestrials aren't my bag, and it's none of my business."

"You sure say that now."

Hawke replayed the conversation while they sat in idle traffic.

He couldn't imagine someone like Fenris being with anyone.

The sun was in the sky by the time they arrived at the Lowtown warehouse. Hawke was the first to get out of the car, and he waited for the driver to open both backseat doors. He was still shivering, his coffee long gone, and vaguely thinking about how ugly the building was.

Fenris stepped out of the car with a dead drop, brushed past him without a look, and lead the way through the backdoors and up a set of unassuming steel steps. The outside of structure was a massive industrial wasteland, but upon ascending the stairs, Hawke was blinded by white walls, high ceilings, flitting bodies and the clicking of cameras. Fenris' appearance warranted a building-wide panic attack, but Fenris only exhaled as he pushed his sunglasses on top of his head.

"Isabela, make sure someone gets me _hot_ coffee," Fenris sleepily muttered, "and for the love of God, do something about that awful _noise_."

He meant the music.

"Explain this to me," Hawke said when Varric appeared beside him.

"What are you asking me to explain?"

"Does he just wake up and put all of that makeup on every single day? It has to take forever."

They were standing on the edge of the room, smoking like freight trains and watching as Isabela hovered over Fenris like a gnat, making people feel incompetent with a single sentence. When that single sentence did nothing, she hovered her heel over the tops of their feet and rattled off the names of their employers before jerking her knee to scare them into submission.

Hawke was surprised when a runner handed them both cups of coffee and asked Varric if he was hungry. Varric declined.

"Have you listened to any of his music?"

"I meant to get around to it last night. I'm sure I've heard it somewhere."

Varric rolled his eyes and grinned.

"Sit down and do that tonight. If you want a short and sweet summarization, then you're going to have to take my word for it when I call him Ziggy Stardust's afterbirth."

"Is that why everyone looks like an alien?"

A thin girl with a pixie cut and veining makeup along her forehead was standing in front of a seated Fenris, holding a glitter palette. She was talking quiet, but clearly fast, and glancing her Polaroid makeup tests every two seconds. Hawke had seen her standing alongside everyone else in the garage, also shivering, with a pink donut in hand.

"Merrill is good business," Varric said, having noticed Hawke watching. "She's a permanent extension, basically another appendage of him. She's like a flower among all of us shitty weeds. My daisy girl. But yes, that's exactly why everyone looks like an alien, and don't worry. I have plans for you."

Hawke leaned away from Varric. "I'd rather not wear a fur coat."

"Wait for that first pay check, and then see how much you'd rather not."

Merrill dabbed, swiped and brushed until the gold on Fenris' face morphed into a swirling galaxy of purple, blue and white glitter. His eyeliner was replaced with black shadow, and she spent thirty minutes spraying and teasing his white hair into a temporarily purple heap.

"When did you start working for him?"

"I've been here since he was making music in a blacked out bedroom. He'd dropped out of school and just met Danarius."

The photo shoot was entirely out of Hawke's realm. He'd never seen one person dressed by so many other people, but Varric reassured him each outfit cost more than any car he'd owned. This was fact, and Hawke actually recognized the bigger designers Fenris was wearing. Sea green Versace patent leather and yellow furs, electric green Dior animal print and then vintage Chanel accessories, all piled onto a single figure until 'cosmic other-being' took on an entirely different reality.

"Is there a theme?" Hawke asked when Fenris was finally in front of the camera.

" _Fenris_  is enough of its own theme. One second, Hawke."

Varric walked off to yell at someone.

All cheekbones and thin wrists, Fenris didn't make an abundance of expression in front of the dark backdrop, but it was the movement and form that apparently mattered. Hawke decided he wasn't interested in watching the mundaneness of the photography process and stepped toward one of the windows. It had a striking view of early morning Kirkwall. He sipped his coffee, enjoying the cityscape, but then glanced back when he was tapped on the shoulder. This time, it was Isabela, and she handed him a protein bar with a bump of the hip.

"Do you know what he said to me before I sent Varric to get you?"

"Who?" Hawke muttered, feigning ignorance.

She grinned. "Cheeky, cheek, Hawke."

"Do I even want to know?"

"He told me you're going to be  _stellar_ ," Isabela's Caribbean accent was thick on the last word, and she laughed before bumping him again. "He was probably high, but who knows?"

"Is everyone this cryptic?"

"Oh, no. We're all just fried."

"Bodyguards aren't," he grinned, " _stellar_. They're glorified security guards."

It was sometime before Fenris approached the window, standing perilously close to Hawke's left but not nearly as close as Isabela. He'd been returned to his normal clothing, implying the shoot was over, and was smoking with a bored stare. He looked down at the street, not over Kirkwall, and Isabela's phone started to ring. Much to Hawke's dismay, she took the call and stepped to the side, immediately bursting into an angry tangent that had something to due with 'incompetent drivers' and 'motherfuckers who couldn't find their own asses if it they were placed on their laps.'

Hawke coughed through his laughter.

"Did you see them?" Fenris asked, tapping his toe and still gazing down at the street.

He followed Fenris' gaze and then slowly took a step forward.

Below them was a horde of people, some screaming, but most just holding cameras in suspended anticipation. Hawke pressed his fingers against the thick glass and then knocked his fist against it. It was bulletproof. He cleared his throat and Fenris continued to watch, ashing his cigarette into an empty paper cup. He looked like an old god who'd been disenchanted by his own creations. There wasn't a sense of awe that so many below adored him, would've sold a kidney to meet him face-to-face. They were a collective annoyance and not his fans, nuisances.

"We're going to be late to the interview, Fenris," Isabela said, dropping her phone into her purse and tightening her sleek ponytail. "Someone can't find the owner of a couple delivery trucks blocking the drivers' ways to the back alley. They shouldn't have left in the first place, but we can't do anything about it now. We're going to have to wait until they move."

Fenris' phone was buzzing again, and he ignored it the same way he had the night before. He stepped in line with Hawke and peered downward before killing the cigarette in the remaining coffee with a whispery sizzle. Exhaling, he stepped backward, fixed his cumbersome jacket and then turned to begin walking toward the stairs. In an instant, his sunglasses were back on his face. Hawke realized he was supposed to be beside him.

"Tell them to park in front. We'll push through the crowd."

Isabela hurried after him, following Hawke's jog in her heels.

"We  _cannot_  walk into that crowd right now. Aveline and Donnic aren't here, and Hawke's just starting. Varric and I can't shove them off you, and they'd snap Merrill in two to get to you. This is dangerous."

"She's right," Hawke said, which made Fenris' mouth twist to the side. They descended the stairs together, and Varric called after them before falling in line behind the trio. "That crowd's looking to mummify your limbs so they can place them beside their lube splattered posters of you."

"Is he trying to walk through that crowd?" Varric asked. "He is. Of course he is. Fenris, you can't go outside when they're throbbing like that and believe you'll make it to the car."

"Hawke has one job," Fenris muttered, suddenly striding across the empty bottom floor of the warehouse and toward the glass doors. "If he can't handle this, then he needs a different job."

Hawke knew he was being tested. That or punished, but he couldn't be sure from the tone. The crowd screamed and Hawke tried not to scream back.

"Danarius is going to kill us if he finds out," Varric muttered. "This is going to get _all_ of us fired."

The cars pulled up, and the flashing cameras immediately blinded Hawke. He reached forward for Fenris' arm as soon as he opened the front door and tugged him back, kicking it shut. Fenris shot Hawke a look when touched, clearly disapproving of anyone who did so, but Hawke continued to tug him back with a stoic expression.

"Make sure the doors are unlocked as soon as we get near the car," Hawke said to Isabela. "And  _you_. Don't just open any locked door. Do you want to die? Because I've got enough baggage as is. The last thing I want is a dead employer on my therapist's clipboard. I'm going to _have_ to touch you through this or I'll hogtie you and keep you in here until we can move the cars to the back."

Fenris shoved up his sunglasses and turned to Hawke as if prepared to attack him, but Hawke only brought him closer.

"Did just you threaten me?" he asked.

Hawke leaned down to be on his level.

"I  _did_. I'll continue threatening you as long as it keeps you safe. Isn't that in the job description? Your safety above all else? I'm being paid to do what you want, when you want, but also to keep you in one piece. Are you going to fire me for that?"

Varric whistled. "Hawke, there are cameras. You can't do this here."

"Let me go," Fenris said and his expression was composed, but it was an act.

Hawke dropped his hand and smiled at him.

Fenris defiantly yanked open the heavy door, and as Hawke predicted, there was a violent surge of overheated bodies as soon as they stepped outside. The cameras and yelling rattled him, choking him out with panic. It was attempted groping, the name 'Fenris' being yelled a million times over with accompanying questions and sobs that rained down in a disorienting flurry. He knew they had no choice but to continue. The space in front of the door had been flooded by people.

Hawke could easily see the black cars, but it was still a fifty-foot walk that took the endurance of a mile run. In two seconds, he'd lost sight of Isabela and Varric, which was his cue to wrap an arm around Fenris' waist and tug him to his side with a grunt from Fenris. Hawke firmly used his other arm to shove off the swarm, and he was thankful Fenris didn't fight him on being touched. Not that he had reason to. Hawke glanced over at him to fleetingly see if he was all right, and that raised eyebrow and line for lips told him he wasn't.

Fenris' arm was suddenly caught and ripped back by an imposing fan. While Hawke knew he couldn't punch anyone, he shoved at the teenage boy's face hard enough to make a point and free Fenris.

The second time Fenris was grabbed, this time by his throat, was enough to send Hawke into a state of temperamental disgust. He stopped Fenris, kneeled and slid his arm beneath the back of his knees before catching his back with the other. Cradling the surprisingly heavy man, he pressed Fenris' face into his chest and hoped he enjoyed the scent of cheap Old Spice. He half-expected Fenris to squirm free as he authoritatively powered through the crowd, but he let Hawke do his job.

Ordering the crowd to  _move_ , Hawke pushed through people using his shoulder and bodyweight. The driver threw open the backseat's nearest door, leaned between the front seats and sweating in fear. Hawke glanced down at Fenris one last time before he dove inside. The door shut behind them with a damning smack and the automatic locks immediately followed with a gratifying unified click.

They'd landed twisted. Fenris on his back and Hawke halfway on top, neither of them thinking to move for several seconds. They panted out of time, and Hawke hung his head off the seat while Fenris kept his tilted back, eventually reaching up to throw off his sunglasses.

"Are you okay?" Hawke asked, after he decided he could speak.

Fenris, no longer phlegmatic, nodded.

It was Hawke who thought to untangle them.

He sat upright in his seat and gently pushed Fenris' legs off his lap before reaching for his hand. "Let me help you up."

Fenris didn't let him.

He awkwardly managed to sit upright, and whether or not Isabela and Varric had fared well was left to be seen. Fenris reached between his ankles where a bag Hawke had thought belonged to Isabela laid, and Hawke watched him dig through it with shaking hands and suddenly bloodshot eyes. Any curiosity about Fenris' urgency was lost on him when Fenris opened a cigarette holder jammed with a baggie of white powder. The sound of a compact mirror being whipped open was Hawke's cue to look away.

"Do you want some?"

"No, thank you."

The defining snort that followed made his fingers twitch.


	2. Suffragette City

"I'd rather eat an entire ass than read her interpretation of my intent again."

"Not to be critical, but I've heard from a dependable source you're quite the fan."

"Of her?" Fenris asked and scoffed. "Spare me the impudence, Isabela."

"I meant a fan of eating ass," she said and spread her hands apart as if gauging vast width, "and I mean  _entire_   _ass_."

Fenris choked as if he'd swallowed his tongue.

"So – you  _want_  to be fired?"

Isabela's exasperated sigh punctuated Fenris' question, and Hawke leaned back in the car's seat as he listened to the pair jab at one another.

Hawke noted how Fenris neither confirmed nor denied the accusation.

There wasn't a way to find conclusive normalcy in being Fenris' bodyguard. Hawke had realized this by the end of his first week following him around like a gnat, or at least, that's what it felt like more so than not. While he was only doing his job, he could still sense the irritation on Fenris' part. Being limited and confined couldn't be enjoyable for anyone, so Hawke attempted to come from a place of understanding. Had he been in Fenris' position, and thankfully he wasn't, he imagined he would've packed his bags and changed his identity years ago.

"That party sounds like an abysmal idea," Fenris murmured, defiant as always.

"You  _have_  to go."

"If there was anything redeeming about Anders, then this wouldn't feel so consequential."

"Consequential in what way?" Isabela asked while primping in a Chanel compact Hawke wouldn't have been able to discern from any other handheld mirror. "Anders will be too busy schmoozing with the cream to pick a fight. Then again," she snapped the compact closed and looked onward, thoughtful, "you  _did_  do better than him on the charts recently."

"I was referring to my dignity, but I'm sure he'll find an argument with substance, even if he has to weave it on air himself."

"Don't overthink it."

Hawke turned around in his seat to speak to Fenris, but he paused in habitual shock. Fenris' presence never ceased to surprise him, especially after hearing him have a conversation like any other person. On that afternoon, he was wearing a black trench coat with a fur collar and boots so high Hawke was almost certain they could've doubled as pants. The glitter was gone, but the face paint wasn't, and Hawke decided Fenris was an autumn.

"Am I going to that event? It didn't say on the itinerary."

"If it didn't say so on the itinerary, then no," Isabela answered for Fenris.

"He's coming."

Isabela jerked her head in the direction of Fenris, somewhat amused, but Hawke couldn't imagine why.

"We're going to have to dress him," she said, sounding speculative.

"If there's one thing we can do, then it's that."

"I'd rather not," Hawke insisted. "I can dress myself."

Fenris lifted the corner of his mouth in a condescending half-smile.

"Then you're taking him to Venus Girdle?"

"Are you  _opposed_  to that, Isabela?"

His iron-tone made Isabela lift both hands in surrender.

Hawke didn't know what to expect when Fenris instructed the driver to take them there. He figured it must be a clothing store or maybe the studio Fenris worked in. For a split-second, he humored himself with the thought of a space ship. There was a plethora of possibilities when it came to the pop star, and Hawke's brain wandered as buildings passed. 

"Andy Warhol had the Factory," Fenris explained when they parked in front of an uninspiring warehouse located along the gentrified in-between of Lowtown and Hightown, "and we have Venus Girdle. It has a flattering view of the sea, but without the smell."

Unlike the studio in Lowtown, Venus Girdle was clean, borderline commercial in its exterior frame. Hawke stared at its white slate and floor-to-ceiling windows, clearly unmoved by the apparently relevant three-story structure, and left the car with righted shoulders and heavy arms settled across his chest. Fenris stood beside him and unknowingly mimicked his posture with a tilted head, eyebrows furrowed and nose crinkled.

"I like minimalist architecture."

"It's a building," Hawke offered, but Fenris scrunched his nose even harder and strode toward the heavy metal door, Isabela's heels clacking behind him out of time.

The smartly dressed receptionist seated behind a too big circular desk glanced up and softly grabbed her throat at the sight of Fenris. Hawke watched her reach for the phone in front of her in panicked disbelief, and he wished he didn't find the fear Fenris struck in people's hearts so damn funny. He was a thumb of a man with pretty eyes. What was there to be scared of?

The first floor of Venus Girdle was painted melon with lime egg-shaped chairs clustered together and mismatched curtains Hawke found infuriatingly cohesive. He decided it was hideous on principle, but that principle grew exasperated as they entered the blue-walled elevator that played a song he could've sworn he'd heard on the radio or in passing on a busy street. He tried to remember it, but gave up when the doors opened to reveal the second floor.

Venus Girdle was a closet.

"He's  _huge_ ," Isabela said as she thrust her purse into her assistant's arm. "We're never going to find anything here that fits him. You're going to have to order something within the hour, but even then, how are you going to find anything that fits the group's aesthetic?"

Hawke had finally heard her assistant's name in passing.

Krem, the Whipping Boy, never left Isabela's side, but there was more to that story than blind devotion. Varric had alluded to a dead boyfriend or benefactor, but Hawke hadn't caught the whole story during the rapid-fire exchange between Varric and Isabela. She'd been giving Krem a hard time and Varric had thought it best to smack her hands before the kid had am emotional lapse.

"I'm here," Hawke offered. "I'm here and can dress myself."

"Why does he keep saying that?" Isabela murmured to Fenris. "He's wearing Keds."

Hawke looked down at his shoes.

"I love my shoes."

Fenris turned around and knocked his knuckles against Hawke's chest, as if he were knocking on some very thick door.

"Who do you work for?" he asked, speaking soft with a hint of allure. Hawke drew in a quick breath. "Did you read the contract Varric drew up for you? I believe he made you."

Hawke licked his upper-lip and chuckled as he looked away from Fenris. Even through the makeup, there was something earthly about his stare, something that made him less alien.

"Quite the collection you've got here," Hawke said and stepped back to disperse the sudden, strange tension. "Do you wear all of this?"

"There'll never be enough days in my life to. By the time I get to the midway point, the season's changed."

The walls were stacked and lined with perfectly preserved gifts from the best designers in the world. Hawke didn't have to know anything about fashion to understand there was something otherworldly about the location, a rarity in its own right. He had the same sense of impenetrable cleanliness one felt when walking into a museum, stark and trembling with potential conversation, yet unconceivable in worth. There were endless patterns in endless colors; avocado green and pumpkin orange woven into yellow nebulas on top of bruised plums.

"He'd look good in red," Fenris said as they pulled clothes from racks and handed them off to assistants who were rigid from nerves. "It's the freckles and dark hair that'll contrast nicely."

He turned around and raised a suit up to Hawke's neck, considering the color.

"Strip," Fenris ordered.

"Excuse me?" Hawke asked, glancing around for dressing rooms. "Right here?"

Isabela plopped down and crossed her legs, leaned back on a stupidly short white couch as she bobbed her ankle. Hawke pushed his gaze from her ankle all the way toward her neck, and he had a fleeting thought he didn't want to shake. Isabela smiled at him with an arched eyebrow, entirely knowing, but Hawke could only smile back and mock her look.

Fenris watched the exchange and scoffed.

"Put this on," he muttered, and shoved the fabric against Hawke's chest, "before I sterilize the both of you in the name of overpopulation."

Hawke reluctantly removed his clothing, kicking his Keds and socks toward Isabela who clapped her hands together and wickedly laughed in spite of him. Fenris didn't bother to watch, preoccupied by scarves.

Hawke decided he did look good in red.

Standing in front of a full-length mirror, then dressed in his loaned Prada suit, he shifted his weight and pushed back the hair lazily settled on his forehead.

"The wine suit was a good choice," Isabela assured Fenris and rubbed her cheek. "The gold really sets off his eyes, too. Much better than a tie. I think we know what to do with all that Prada we hate."

"Who would've thought he had a nice shape?" Fenris asked and then walked a couple circles around Hawke, pausing to smooth out the fabric along his shoulders. "Take this off and we'll let them do something about your mop. When was the last time you had a haircut?"

"You are  _not_  cutting my hair."

* * *

Hawke was still pouting when they stepped into Fenris' car.

Not only had the stylists cut his hair, they'd shaved down both sides and taken great pains to ensure Hawke understood how to both texturize and slick back his brought forward bangs.

It looked good, and he  _knew_  his hair looked good, but that was entirely beside the point of why he was mad. Fenris was stripping him of his agency. He was an adult who paid his own bills and remembered to feed his dog, even if sometimes he fed said dog delivery pizza. Hawke was capable of taking care of himself, and if he'd wanted to look like someone ripped him out of a GQ issue, then he would've taken the time to do it himself, somehow.

"Please stop making that face," Fenris said as he handed Hawke a pair of sunglasses. "I cannot stand that ugly face."

Fenris snatched Isabela's phone from her hand with a decided yank, and she yelled in surprise, but paused when she saw him opening Twitter.

"Has he tweeted anything?" Fenris asked, viciously scrolling. He paused and then made a noise of disgust as his eyes reread the same sentence over and over again. "All he does is talk about his cats. No one fucking cares about his cats. I really think I hate him."

"Nothing like being an animal lover to really dampen someone's character," Hawke murmured before clearing his throat. "Who are you even talking about?"

"Anders," Isabela said as she gave up on getting her phone back anytime in the near future. "The man throwing the party we're going to."

"Don't hound me for asking, but who's Anders?"

This question seemed to appease Fenris who leaned forward between the driver and Hawke to make sure he had his audience's full attention.

"He's a festering boil on the entire music industry, and it is our divine right to see that his career burn."

"He also does music," Isabela clarified, "and he once publicly criticized Fenris' artistry as being showboating and archaic, even though he hasn't outsold one of Fenris' albums."

"What kind of music does he do?"

"He doesn't," Fenris purred, self-satisfied.

"He dabbles in pop music, but he started out in an indie band."

"I was in a band once," Hawke said, but then pursed his lips in embarrassment. "When I was a dumb kid. We called it Conceptual Dragon or something. I don't remember."

He remembered, but they didn't have to know that.

"What did you do?" Fenris asked, still gazing at the screen. "In the band, I mean."

"I was like every other college freshman who thought he could sing and play guitar."

" _Interesting_ ," Fenris mused, but said no more. He handed back the phone. "Isabela, delete the app."

Hawke decided whether or not Anders was an asshole was beside the point, because when they arrived at the gallery venue of Anders' party, that Hawke eventually realized was a charity for a children's cancer foundation, he couldn't bring himself to deny the party was beyond anything he'd ever seen. There was no reason for him to do anything but stand back and let Fenris drink in the glory of the walk inside and the affluent artists who wanted his time, and he was glad for it. Hawke was too mesmerized by the witchcraft used to keep the hundreds of glasses of champagne towered to really be engaging.

"Is that Hawke?" Varric's voice cut through the deafening murmuring of the crowd. "I'll be damned. You let them clean you up quicker than I thought you would."

Hawke glanced up and grinned at the sight of someone he'd essentially imprinted his friendship on in the name of survival.

"Still no fur coat," Hawke countered and seemed surprised when Varric handed him a drink. "Should I be drinking while watching him?"

"These parties are so heavily guarded the president would have a bitch of a time getting in without an invitation. He's as fine as he can be."

"He hates the guy hosting this party."

"That would be an understatement, my friend."

Hawke brought the glass to his lips and carefully watched Fenris, even though he'd been reassured there was no need.

Fenris had decided on a plunging neckline for the black velvet suit he was wearing, making his navel visible. The choice in cut had confused Hawke even further, and he was then certain Fenris was a genderless enigma better left unquestioned.

"He's attractive," Varric confirmed, letting Hawke know he was caught. "Have you seen his boyfriend yet? That's always my favorite reveal for the new people."

"Should I care?" Hawke asked and leaned over to get a better look at Fenris' conversational expression. He was softer, clearly keeping up with the Joneses. "Is the guy here?"

"Over there."

Varric pointed across the room, opposite of Fenris. Hawke's eyes darted in the direction, and he laughed at first, convinced Varric was joking. When his expression didn't slacken, Hawke sobered himself.

"You're fucking  _joking._ "

Danarius was an ancient man, but a well-dressed kind of ancient who stood tall in his black suit and gratifying gold jewelry. His eyes were watery but wicked in the way they drifted across the crowd with unblinking authority. Hawke could smell the cocktail of prestige and cash drifting from the man's wrinkled, flabby skin. He concluded Danarius might've been handsome in another era, but in the now, he was nothing more than an elderly man with a good trainer and plastic surgeon.

"Tell me he doesn't get it in," Hawke said, sounding desperate as he drank his champagne a little quicker. "Tell me they're in some kind of celibate relationship where the most he gets is the occasional toe licking. I can handle that, at the most."

"If only I could."

Varric chuckled at Hawke's disdain and finished his drink.

"But it could be worse," Varric started only to stop himself and shrug, "somehow. The truth is he's a prolific asshole, and Fenris can't do a damn thing about it while his contract is wound up in him. Danarius is his manager – remember? Imagine if they broke up. That kid wouldn't have a damn dime to his name when the lawyers finished with them. It'd be worse than any Hollywood divorce in the history of pop culture. Thankfully, they aren't married."

"It literally couldn't be worse."

"In this world," Varric agreed. "In the financially stable first world."

"But Fenris has slept with other people."

"That doesn't mean anything," he grabbed another drink from a circulating platter. "It's the bragging rights Danarius wants. He gets to tell everyone he made and laid the kid."

"That's not fucking vile or anything."

Hawke glanced back to where Fenris had stood and realized he was gone. He grunted and continued scanning the crowd, but he was nowhere to be found.

"Go do your job," Varric assured him and patted his back with hard smacks. "Maybe, if you're an overachiever, he'll let you keep the suit."

An irrational sense of duty persuaded Hawke into the crowd. He amply shifted through the clotted conversationalists, peeking over heads and trying to find Fenris' wildly styled hair in the mass, but again, Fenris was nowhere to be found. Hawke considered calling him or Isabela, just to be sure, but he refrained from bothering until he'd checked the bathrooms.

The bathrooms were tucked away upstairs in an overlooking loft where art sat postured on the walls. Hawke had expected a line, but there wasn't one. The night was too young for drunken bathroom gatherings.

"Fenris," Hawke called before lightly beating his fist against the door. He heard shuffling behind the door and shifted uncomfortably at the thought of interrupting Fenris' piss. He decided to lie to save face. "Varric told me to check in on you."

The door beside him opened instead and Fenris popped his head out, shot glass in hand.

"Wrong door," he said, deadpan as he raised his glass. "Tell me you're thirsty."

"Tell me you're not drinking in the bathroom alone."

Hawke didn't wait for an answer and followed Fenris into the bathroom that boxed a chaise lounge nicer than anything he owned in his apartment. On the sink sat a bottle of half-empty whiskey and Fenris had clearly settled on the ladies' bathroom as his home base for the evening.

"I hate the noise," Fenris said as he took a seat on the couch and gestured for Hawke to hand him the bottle. "I hate the noise and I hate these people."

He glanced toward the door and wondered if he should get help until he realized  _he_  was the help. Hawke cleared his throat and sat down beside Fenris. This hadn't been in the job description, but that didn't stop him from leaning over his knees to listen.

"We could go back to Venus Girdle or the hotel."

"I have to be here  _all_ night," Fenris snapped, but Hawke didn't take offense. "You haven't been here long enough to know, but this job is a nightmare. No one should want this job. I sold my soul for this job, and here I am – the biggest asshole in the industry. I'm jaded by everything that went wrong – everything I asked for – making it  _my_  fault."

"Hey, now, starry eyes. I thought the industry asshole was Anders."

Fenris suddenly smiled only for said smile to turn sheepish. Hawke breathed in quick when he did. It was unlike anything he'd seen since starting the job, those perfectly aligned teeth veiled by sudden self-consciousness. Fenris cleared his throat with lowered eyes and his gaze flitted toward Hawke's face in the same fashion it had when the earlier tension occurred.

"I understand red tape," Hawke reassured him, "but surely you should be able to find a kind of happiness in all of this. You have too much money to be this damn miserable."

"I've tried," he stated dully. "I've tried and I've always ruined it for myself."

Hawke took Fenris' shot glass and poured himself a drink. He shamelessly knocked the scorching liquor down his throat, appreciating the heat that trailed toward his empty stomach, and pressed his shoulder against Fenris' while pouring the other a drink.

"Then I say just fuck it," Hawke said matter-of-fact, turning to look at Fenris with an aloof gaze. He handed him the shot glass. "Fuck it all."

"You can't say fuck it to a billion dollar industry."

"Maybe you can't in the grand scheme," he began and urged Fenris to down the drink with an insistent gesture, "but you  _can_ tell Right Now to fuck it."

"Don't do this," Fenris pleaded, but he brought the drink to his lips.

"Do what, Fenris? I'm trying to help you."

He tilted his head back as he pounded down the mouthful in a single swallow and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Hawke reached up to fix Fenris' smeared makeup. He'd half-expected Fenris to smack his hand away, but he didn't. Fenris sat there instead and considered how to answer Hawke's question. The conflict was evident, and he never formulated the words.

"Do you ever take your makeup off in public?" Hawke asked, chuckling as he blended Fenris' makeup back into its typical seamlessness. He noted how close his encircling thumb was to the corner of Fenris' mouth. "You told me you take it off at night, but is that only when you're by yourself? You probably hate this question by now, but I need to know. Sate me, Fenris."

Fenris slowly reached up for Hawke's wrist and wrapped his small fingers around the limb, not stopping him but coming to grips with his presence.

"I've been known to take off more for a bodyguard."

Hawke paused, stunned, but didn't drop his hand.

Fenris dominated the moment with a hopeful gaze Hawke could only match with his own, and though his heart was climbing its way toward his teeth, he couldn't resist the urge to swipe his thumb along Fenris' full bottom lip. Varric hadn't been exaggerating when he'd called Fenris attractive, and Hawke's insatiable curiosity was getting the better of him. He wanted to see Fenris without his thick makeup, the man behind whatever mask he'd donned for security.

"Has anyone ever  _really_  been good to you?" Hawked murmured, knowing that was an invasive question, but he couldn't resist. Not when Fenris was being soft and vulnerable. His eyes alone melted him beyond congealing. "Is this as good as it gets for you?"

"This is it," he admitted and cupped the side of Hawke's face, running his middle finger along the freshly trimmed line of his beard. "I bet it makes you think little of me. You think that I use my staff for every gratification on earth like some selfish pig. You think I don't care and that you're all fucking cogs, but I feel everything. I feel more than I want to."

Fenris guided Hawke closer to him, and Hawke whistled with slated eyes, lips hovering dangerously close to Fenris' as they exchanged a final look.

"That was some damn good whiskey, wasn't it?"

"I only drink top shelf," Fenris breathed before wrapping his arms around Hawke's neck and tugging himself up against the man's broad chest, using his full body to initiate the kiss down to uncrossing his legs, "and the same goes for who I fuck."

He caught Hawke's chin with a taut grip, urging the other man to open his mouth with a loving little lick that Hawke couldn't bring himself to resist. Hawke submissively moaned into Fenris' hot mouth, his tongue ghosting across the other's with an eager sweep that graced front teeth. Panic wanted to set in, but Fenris was beautiful, and no commonsense could stop him then.

Excitable, Fenris plucked the single hinge keeping the front of his jacket together, allowing it to splay open and reveal naked plateaus. Hawke saw it as an invitation to grapple for either side of Fenris' warm ribcage, fingers traipsing the expanding and deflating flesh of his dense navel, the muscles dipping cautiously as the heat built beneath them.

Hawke thought that Fenris would be more cautious in general, scared considering the past consequences, but instead he kissed harder with scraping canines and hitched breath. Fenris did the reaching and climbing, his rounded knees balancing himself as he straddled Hawke's lap that seemed handcrafted for his seat. He fit perfectly, comfortably snug, and Fenris caught both sides of Hawke's face as he bore his stare downward, assessing him with artistic contemplation. Fenris was drinking him in, thighs tightening with an unspoken wish to thrust forward, his body seizing at the carnal need to fuck.

"Should we consider this a conflict of interest?"

Fenris hummed at Hawke's question and reached down to lithely open the very pants he'd put him in, Hawke's own palm reaching between Fenris' thighs to grind upward with 'come hither' grabs.

"How long has it been since someone other than yourself got you off?" Hawke's voice was low and expectant. "You can tell me, Fenris. No one else has to know about this."

Fenris lowered his forehead to Hawke's shoulder, hands trembling as he suddenly started to grind against Hawke's hand. He stared at the crook of Hawke's neck and jolted when the rubbing became too much, persuading the man to lighten the pressure.

"Months," he divulged in between thick gasps. He reached down to push his hand beneath Hawke's black briefs, pausing to drag fingertips through his dark happy trail. "Months and  _months_."

Hawke wondered how that was possible, but he didn't have the chance to ask.

The bathroom's door handle jiggled once, twice and then Isabela's voice called through to announce her entry. Fenris pushed himself back from Hawke who withdrew his hand, but there was no chance to untangle themselves from one another.

"I have  _chasers_!" she exclaimed with eyes bright, ready to join Fenris in his antiparty. The brightness died a rather quick death when she spotted the pair panting. Her eyes immediately darted down to Hawke's open pants, and she pointed right at his hard on. "A week is a new record, Fenris. Congratulations on your heathen endeavors."

Isabela shut the door with her foot and set down the bottle of Italian orange soda along with her other snack finds. She crossed her arms over her ample chest and shifted her weight onto a single foot, overlooking the guilty pair as Fenris stiffly fixed his jacket and swung himself off Hawke and onto the other end of the lounge. Hawke cleared his throat, smiling with a quick exhale as he fixed his pants.

He chuckled.

"Don't look so self-satisfied, Anne Boleyn," Isabela said. "What if I'd been Danarius?"

"But you weren't," Fenris said and turned toward Hawke. "Why didn't you lock the door?"

Hawke raised both palms, finally offended.

"How was I supposed to know the alien had a thing for hairy humans?"

Isabela snorted but quickly stopped herself. That is, until she saw Fenris' annoyed expression.

"You can go home, Hawke," Fenris muttered, sullen.

"What about the suit?" Hawke asked, standing and trying to hide the fact he was still half-hard. The ache was starting to set in. "Do I bring it back to you?"

"Keep it," Fenris sighed. "I really don't care."

Hawke let himself out of the bathroom, and palmed himself to make sure it wasn’t too obvious he’d just been in the throes with Fenris. His mind was just beginning to process what exactly had happened when he was forced to delay his internal monologuing. 

“That’s not conspicuous or anything.”

The voice surprised Hawke, and he glanced up, eyes darting toward a thin man with a pointed nose and long blond hair pulled back into a messy bun. He was smiling, unassumingly warm and holding his own drink. Clearly amused by Hawke’s predicament, he leaned back on a booted foot and appraised Hawke before furrowing his brow. Hawke noted that he was also wearing fur, black fur _and_  turquoise feathers, and reminded himself not to stare with pursed lips.

“Do I _know_ you?”

“Probably not,” Hawke said, wondering if Fenris could hear the conversation. “I’m kind of a nobody in these parts. A lowly ant without a crumb.”

“And yet somehow you’re at _my_ party.”

Hawke raised a finger and then pointed at Anders in disbelief. He licked his top lip and then glanced to the side as he wondered what exactly he was supposed to do, loyalty wise.

“You don’t look like a nobody. You’re wearing a very expensive suit and your hair is great.”

Hawke reached up and vaguely smiled, touching his hair.

“It _is_ pretty great, isn’t it?” he said but then stopped himself.

Hawke reached out for Anders’ hand for a shake, which Anders didn’t mind returning.

“I’m Hawke, Fenris’ bodyguard.”

Anders pursed his lips to bite back a smile that still reached the corners of his mouth. He took a long sip from his drink and cleared the oncoming laugh from his throat.

“You’re the _bodyguard_.”

“Right,” Hawke confirmed, slowly nodding. “I watch his back because I’m paid to.”

“I’m sure you watch his back _plenty_.”

“Wait a minute,” Hawke started, stepping toward Anders who firmly placed his open palm against Hawke’s chest. “ _Don’t_ touch me.”

“You’re a little too good looking to be pandering to the Concept of Fenris. Do something for yourself. Be a model, pick up a hobby. You have no idea what those kids do to survive his entourage or what he expects from you longterm. I can see it in how defensive you just got. Let me guess – Fenris was in the bathroom with you. He’s probably still in there, avoiding me because he’s _really_ predictable and can’t seem to stand any discourse with me.”

“You’re being pretty assumptive.”

“You don’t know him. He’s an animal," Anders said, pointblank as he strode toward the men's bathroom. "Take it from someone who’s been in the industry. It was nice meeting you, though. I have no doubt fate will have us meet again. You’re going to figure out just how intimate this world can be sometimes. If you're willing to sacrifice what it takes to stick it out here.”

Hawke watched him disappear into the bathroom, wondering what exactly had happened between Fenris and Anders to make them both apparently malicious. 


End file.
